Chapter Four
James decided that if he were going to impress the Earl of Lark, some new clothes were in order. One brisk morning, he set out to the tailor’s, a building of light-gray stone with an immaculately clean display window, nestled between other buildings that looked more or less the same.
He stepped into the small front room, which held bolts of fabric and a few finished coats for display.
The assistant, or the tailor—James wasn’t sure how to tell which was which—stepped forward to greet him, pausing almost imperceptibly as he did. He eyed the bulk of James’s shoulders, and then his gaze strayed to James’s cravat and looked vaguely pained.
James didn’t know what there was to be pained about. This cravat was his favorite—green with yellow dots. It was festive. The man should look delighted.
“How may I help you?”
“I need a new coat and some waistcoats.”
“Would you like to set up an appointment? We can visit you at your home for your convenience.”
That didn’t sound particularly convenient to James, as he was already here. “No. Here is fine.”
The man nodded. “Very well. Evening wear? Day wear?”
“Evening, I suppose.”
The man gathered some bolts of fabric to show him, spreading them out on a table. James frowned.
“This isn’t going to work.”
The man startled. “Why not?”
“Where are the colors? This is too dull.”
“Sir,” he said, in a sort of tone that would have been better suited if James had verbally assaulted him. “I assure you, these are quite appropriate for evening wear.”
“I like that one,” he said, pointing at a fabric that was still on the shelf. It was red and silky, and it reminded him of something one might see hanging on the walls of a palace. It screamed of opulence, and there was nothing James loved more than opulence.
The man looked horrified. “Silk damask in claret red? For evening wear? I wouldn’t even approve of it for day wear.”
“Then why do you have it?”
“Some people”—here, he paused to sniff—“insist on having no fashion sense.”
In the end, James ordered a coat in fine black wool and a gold waistcoat for the Natural History Society meeting, and then he insisted on having no fashion sense and ordered a waistcoat in the damask, too, simply because he liked it.
As the smaller man measured him, James had a creeping sense of being out of place. This shop was for gentry, at the least, and he wasn’t even that. He had dirt all over him—a Highland accent that threatened to seep out when he didn’t want it to, a build that no wellborn man possessed, and a nose broken from living by his fists.
For a moment, he wondered if this man could see right through him to his past. Dark eyes were replaced by haughty blue ones.
And he almost let it shake him. Almost. But then he remembered hungry, desperate nights and long, bloody fights, and aristocrats who’d jeered and cheered along with his ups and downs, who’d bet on him, and congratulated him, and bought him ale at a pub, and still would never think about inviting him to their family homes.
He was less. They all thought so. His father thought so, too, maybe more than anyone. He’d turned away and turned up his nose and never once looked back.
But James did not have to be less forever.
If he could impress the Earl of Lark, if he could find a way to get closer to Lady Sarah…with a woman like that at his side, with her influence and her wealth at his disposal…he could make a place, carve a place for himself that no one would be able to take away.
He could prove that he was just as good as them, just as good as his father. That he was worth something.
And maybe then this hole in his heart, this yawning, gaping want, would ease a little.
…
“Scarabaeus fim—fim…” James swore and pulled at the foolscap he’d slipped into his waistcoat pocket. “Fimetarius.”
He glanced at what he’d written down next to the name: reddish elytra, black head and thorax.
He couldn’t even remember the difference between the elytra and the thorax.
No matter how many times he looked at the list, the words were still as insubstantial as water dripping through his open fingers. He didn’t know why scientists insisted on calling them by such complicated names—wouldn’t ugly green beetle, or uglier red and black beetle suffice just as well? It would be easier for him to remember.
He tucked the foolscap back into his sleeve and walked over to Campbell.
They stood outside the building where the Natural History Society met—gray stone, multiple stories, a dominating portico, and several steps leading up to it. It was not the kind of building meant to invite, it was the kind meant to impress. Nerves crept through him, as sticky and unwanted as the bugs whose names he couldn’t remember.
But he’d never let nerves stop him before. Not during his first fight, when he’d been pummeled into a bruised lump. Not during his second, which wasn’t much better.
Life was one big prizefight, he told himself. Nerves were for beginners.
He straightened his shoulders, took a long, confident breath, and strode up the steps. A footman took their hats and Campbell’s walking stick. James was already looking down the hall, adding up the extravagance—Persian rugs and framed landscape paintings and crystal chandeliers and wall sconces that shimmered gold. He imagined what all of these luxurious, unnecessary things might have cost. James might not care much for science, but he did like numbers—particularly when they were related to money.
They were led into a large, open room lined with chairs. It was nearly full. At the front of the room was a raised platform like one would see at a theater, and on tables pushed toward the sides of the platform, open cabinets were displayed. When they moved closer, he saw the cabinets were full of insect specimens, stuck to the board with a pin, as shiny as gems when the light struck their hard shells.
Even James, who had to fight a shudder of revulsion when he saw one that looked like a beetle that had gotten stuck in his hair once and refused to let go, was impressed. There were nearly two dozen beetles displayed, and they all looked remarkably well-preserved.
James was searching for the Earl of Lark when one of the society members started to urge everyone to take their seats.
James sighed and slumped into the closest chair, next to Campbell. The member, looking ecstatic, introduced the speaker—a true paragon of insect collection, by the sound of it—and then stepped aside.
The speaker—Cecil Townsend, if James remembered correctly—moved behind the podium. He was wearing a powdered wig, a fashion that usually wasn’t seen at all in men under fifty or so. Either he had no fashion sense, or he was attempting to resurrect something that was better left dead.
He raised his fist politely as he cleared his throat. Behind his spectacles, his gaze swept over the audience and then back down at his papers.
He took a moment to straighten them, hands trembling slightly.
James almost felt sorry for the man. He was no doubt used to being surrounded by bugs, not people—especially not people who were hanging on his every word.
The speaker cleared his throat again, and James searched the rows for the earl, but couldn’t find him in the midst of a sea of black coats. He was abruptly yanked from his search when Cecil Townsend spoke—a raspy deep voice that was entirely at odds with his slight build and unassuming face.
He sounded like a man who’d ruined his throat with tobacco and drinking and revelry, not a man who spent his days pattering about collecting insects. It was odd. Odd enough for James to take note of him.
James tried to pay attention to what he was saying, though he wasn’t that interested.
“While I was in England, I was lucky enough to observe some of the mating habits of the fascinating Lucanus cervus.” He cleared his throat again and lifted a stack of parchment from the table next to him. “If you could pass around these sketches,” he said politely to the first person in the row.
“As you may know, the male is significantly larger than the female—seventy-five millimeters at its greatest length as opposed to fifty—an unusual dichotomy in beetles. The male has large red mandibles that protrude like stag horns from the head. They use these mandibles to fight with other males, also much like stags, hence their common name. I’ve included a sketch of two males fighting over the same female.”
Another little cough.
“I’m not certain if there are actually more males than females or if the males are simply so active when it comes to breeding that they attempt to procreate with as many females as they can. The males fly in search of a mate and are quite aggressive. I observed one female, and four males, all attempting to breed with her. One male even landed on the breeding pair and attempted to dislodge the other male.”
James glanced around and frowned. Everyone was leaning forward, raptly attentive, eyes almost hungry. James might have been more excited if the sketches were of humans mating.
“This was at dusk, when Lucanus cervus is most active. I observed this behavior in June.”
Townsend went on to discuss the short lifespans of the adult and surmise about the larvae, which couldn’t be observed because they were underground. The man next to James handed over the sketches, and he glanced at them, expecting to be bored out of his mind. But he was immediately caught by the drawings.
The attention to detail was astounding—if it wasn’t a flat image, James might have suspected it of being a real beetle. The male was truly monstrous—a large black body and angry red mandibles that were almost half as long as the beetle itself. The sketches of the males fighting were alive with motion—quick, sharp strokes filled in with dark, bold color.
He nearly chuckled at the sketch of the intruder male trying to mate with the female when there was already another male on top of her, and then wondered if he’d lost his mind. These people were perverse. It wasn’t as though beetles would make Cecil Townsend famous or wealthy, so what was the point of these meticulous observations and detailed drawings? They were just bugs for God’s sake—hideous ones, at that.
He quickly handed the sketches to Campbell.
After a series of questions, the speech ended, and the crowd applauded once more as Townsend stepped down from the platform.
James saw him, then—the Earl of Lark, heading toward Townsend. He nudged Campbell.
They did their best to sidle up to the pair without seeming too conspicuous.
“Campbell,” the Earl of Lark said in a booming voice. His daughter looked like him, James realized. The same placid blue eyes and gleaming chestnut hair. The same aristocratic confidence, smooth and dignified.
Stephen, who must have been addicted to gossip rags because he knew all about circles he wasn’t a part of, had surreptitiously pointed out Lady Sarah to James one day with the offhand remark that she was the toast of Edinburgh Society. She’d been shopping with a companion. James hadn’t even looked at the companion. Lady Sarah was beautiful, yes, but she was more than beautiful—she had an innate self-assurance and an easy, gentle grace. She looked over the shops and greeted her acquaintances like a benevolent queen. Lady Sarah knew her place in the world—she would always know it.
And he’d known, right then, what he wanted. He’d known, right then, how far out of reach it was. But then, he’d never thought he would be introduced to Lady Sarah’s father, either.
“Did you enjoy the talk?” The earl asked Campbell.
“Very much so. As did my friend, Mr. MacGregor.”
“Capital, capital,” he said, with a nod of greeting toward James. He introduced Cecil Townsend to them, whose voice sounded even raspier up close.
“Are you related to the Earl of Arden, by any chance?” The Earl of Lark asked.
Cecil nodded. “We are distant cousins,” he said.
“Will he be coming to Edinburgh? Everyone is quite curious about him.”
“I couldn’t say.” An almost indiscernible pause. “We are not close.”
“Ah, it happens,” Lord Lark said jovially. “Will you show us your cabinets, then, sir? I’m quite keen to see them.”
Townsend nodded, giving a slight, shy smile.
There was something about that smile…James couldn’t place it, but it bothered him.
But James didn’t know why he was focused on the strange little entomologist when the man whose daughter he wanted to marry was standing right in front of him.
James leaped in to fill the silence as they walked toward the cabinets. “I wonder if it would be possible to dig up the larvae of Lucanus…” He paused, racking his brain, “cervus.” He also wondered if he sounded as idiotic as he felt, uttering a sentence like that.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t the Earl of Lark who answered him. “To observe them,” Townsend said, nodding. “Yes, I’ve wondered the same thing myself. If one were to observe where the female went after mating—though it would be a shame to accidentally harm them, and it might be impossible to tell how deep underground they are.”
“And there is always the fear that taking them out of their natural habitat would disrupt their normal habits. How would a scientist know that what they observed above ground would match what would have happened underground?” the Earl of Lark asked.
They reached the cabinets and the earl leaned forward. “Remarkable,” he said. “How long did this take you?”
“Several years,” he said.
“Capital! I must say, your dedication is amazing, Mr. Townsend.”
James watched, with a heavy sense of defeat, as Lark turned his rapt attention on Townsend, while the entomologist explained how and where and when he’d gathered each specimen. He let the actual conversation fade into the background. Lark had barely even noticed James.
He would never be able to ingratiate himself with the man while Townsend was around.
James decided to wait it out. He was watching the entomologist gesture toward the beetles, though he was barely listening to what was being said, when something caught his attention. A subtle motion. Almost imperceptible. It would have been imperceptible to anyone else. But he’d trained himself long ago to notice almost imperceptible motions.
While he’d been speaking, Cecil Townsend had lifted his gloved hand toward his temple, and then, almost as quickly, arrested the motion and let the hand fall. James had seen women make that exact gesture before, to push back the curled tendrils that framed their faces. An emotion crossed the man’s face—embarrassment—and then was gone in another instant.
James cocked his head and stared at Townsend. He studied his small face, took in the long, dark lashes that were partially obscured by spectacles. Took in the way Townsend narrowed his eyes when he looked at something, as though the spectacles were more of a hindrance than anything else.
He remembered that odd shy smile. And that voice.
He let it rasp over him. It wasn’t the hoarsened voice of a man who was given to drinking and smoking, as he’d originally thought. It was the voice of someone trying to disguise what they really sounded like.
James felt a smile spread across his face. He wanted to bark out a laugh.
He might be doing a damn fine job of hiding it, but James would bet a thousand pounds that Cecil Townsend was no man at all.